Conciliatory Coffee (It's All Fine)
by dget
Summary: "He can feel John's shuddering breaths in his own lungs, feel John's heart beating behind his own sternum." Because John Watson is a doctor, and Sherlock Holmes is a detective, and neither really knows how to be anything else. A post-Reichenbach reunion oneshot. Can be read as Johnlock if you wish.


When Sherlock shows up in John's life again after three years of being dead, John punches him in the face and sends him away and refuses to hear a word past Sherlock's initial blurted "I'm alive and Moriarty's web is destroyed."

When Sherlock shows up outside the clinic at the next day's closing with two cups of conciliatory coffee (undrugged) and a fresh bruise painting his left cheek, John (who has bags under his eyes and must have hardly slept last night) merely plucks one of the cups out of his former flatmate's hands and brushes past him out the door. Sherlock turns to follow, two meters behind, as without a word John leads them back to his new flat. Sherlock stands back and bins his own still-full drink as John unlocks the door, steps inside, and turns to regard the detective with a steady gaze. "Coming in?" he asks levelly – the first words he's spoken to Sherlock in one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight days. (The shouting of the previous morning hardly counts, as for a good deal of it John was under the impression that he was yelling at a particularly vivid hallucination.) Sherlock nods and John steps aside, allowing his former flatmate to sidle past him into the flat's entryway.

Sherlock's eyes immediately dart about the space, observing and deducing. John's new flat is small and Spartan – plain white walls, dated hardware, worn carpeting. (Is this due to a lack of time, a lack of money, or a lack of caring?) The thermostat by the door is set low; the entryway's floor is free of mud and dirt but not clean enough to be so due to a recent mopping; the draining board has naught but a mug inverted upon it; conclusion – John spends very little time here. (Likely a lack of caring, then.) There is a pile of paperwork on the kitchen table. A table with a drawer stands near the doorway, with a bowl on top for John's keys and wallet. Due to the scratch marks underneath the drawer, where it had likely been pulled open in a panicked hurry and fallen clean out of the table, Sherlock strongly suspects that John's gun now resides in this drawer. (Keeping it near the door, then – John has been stressed, hasn't felt entirely safe. Strange, given that Sherlock knows for a fact that the crosshairs trained on John disappeared the moment the detective had stepped off the roof. Upon further consideration, though, it is entirely possible that John himself is unaware of this fact.) The skull is sitting on a shelf, the only reminder of 221B in the place. (Interesting that, of all things, John would hold on to the skull. Sherlock wonders if the doctor sees the irony in it – Sherlock had only ever needed the skull before John entered his life; now, it seems that John needed the skull in the detective's absence.)

Suddenly Sherlock feels the need to check the cupboards, and does so accordingly. Just as he'd thought – very little in the way of food or utensils, supporting the hypothesis that John is rarely home – but there is a complete absence of liquor. (Very good, John.) To be certain, he checks the refrigerator – a half-finished six-pack is shoved in the back, but that's all; nothing to be concerned about. Though there are two berry yoghurts sitting on the top shelf. (Odd; Sherlock can't recall John ever consuming yoghurt in the time they'd lived together.) An idea strikes, then, and Sherlock strides over to the bathroom and throws the door open. Yes, there are two toothbrushes resting in a cup on the counter. "You have a steady girlfriend," Sherlock announces. (Obvious, now he thinks about it – John's neatly trimmed nails, carefully shaven face, the longer hours he's been working to pay for dates on top of everything else – really, how had he missed it?)

When he looks back, John is exactly where Sherlock left him, standing by the door, watching him with a look that seems to be a mixture of irritation and resignation – with perhaps a bit of amusement? Sherlock can't be certain. It would appear, though, that John had expected the detective to act exactly as he had, which annoys Sherlock somewhat. (He does not enjoy feeling as transparent as the rest of humanity.)

"Fiancée," John corrects. Sherlock, whose mind has moved on, merely blinks at the doctor. "Her name is Mary."

(Ah, the girlfriend. More than a girlfriend, then. Mary. John and Mary. How long have they been together? How did they meet?) "There's always something," Sherlock mutters, stepping away from the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Silence reigns for a tense moment before John is gesturing him back to the entryway. "Give me your coat, I'm going to make some tea," he says impatiently.

(Ah yes, social norms.) Sherlock hands over his Belstaff and watches as John hangs it up and heads to the small kitchen. He is far too restless to simply sit on John's couch and wait patiently for a cuppa, so he paces for a few minutes, fruitlessly, before following John into the kitchen.

John is pouring out two cups, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock approaches and peers over the doctor's shoulder – they are mugs, not proper teacups, another casualty of John's minimalist lifestyle. After he's poured, John sets the kettle down and turns to face Sherlock.

The detective is half expecting a reprimand (invasion of personal space, a bit not good), and is therefore surprised when John reaches out his left hand – slowly, slowly – and places it on Sherlock's chest, over his heart.

They remain like this for a while (a full 147 seconds, by Sherlock's count), the detective holding still, looking down at John, and John, brow furrowed, staring at his own hand (warm through Sherlock's shirt). Eventually his right hand comes up to probe gently at Sherlock's ribs, traveling down them one by one. When he reaches the twelfth rib, he leaves the hand on Sherlock's waist, and shifts his left off the detective's sternum to check his other side, again prodding each rib in turn. The touch is clinical but still somehow warm, and it's then that Sherlock realizes what John is doing. It's much the same as his own need to examine John's flat upon entering.

John is making certain that Sherlock is all right.

With this in mind, the detective allows John to unbutton his shirt and slide it off, baring several scars acquired in the past three years. The doctor looks slightly pained at the sight of the revealed skin; the lines on his forehead deepen as he observes. John circles Sherlock briefly, and then picks up each arm in turn for examination when he arrives back in front. His breath hitches slightly when he runs his fingers over the long, jagged scar on the detective's left forearm. (It's the result of a particularly nasty knife fight in Serbia. Sherlock had been forced to suture it himself, alone in a dirty abandoned warehouse – he'd known as he did so that it was certain to scar horribly. At the time, it didn't bother him. But now, somehow, seeing it afresh through John's eyes, it looks so much worse).

John's fingers leave his arm and reach for his head. They run through his hair as the doctor checks his skull, applying gentle pressure. Sherlock closes his eyes at the sensation. (John isn't making eye contact with him in any case, too focused on the work of his own hands, face screwed up as though he's feeling each injury in his own body, which is rather silly, really – ) But then Sherlock feels the pad of John's thumb on his cheek, ghosting over the bruise he'd caused, fingers curled around the detective's jaw, and his own eyes fly open only to find liquid pooling in those of the shorter man.

(_Sentiment_.)

(But, for once, Sherlock cannot fault the doctor. He detests hypocrisy, after all.)

John abruptly surges forward, arms suddenly trapping Sherlock in a fierce embrace, nose pressed into the detective's bare shoulder. Sherlock is forced to take a half-step back with the force of it. Almost of their own volition, his arms rise to encircle John in return, squeezing with equal force. He can feel John's shuddering breaths in his own lungs, feel John's heart beating behind his own sternum.

After a bit (428 seconds), Sherlock's right knee (the one that got kicked out in an alleyway in Prague) is paining him due to the weight of John leaning into him. The detective takes it upon himself to ease the two of them down so that they are sitting on the kitchen floor, still embracing, legs tangled, in a semblance of a more comfortable position.

They stay like that for quite some time. (Sherlock has forgotten to keep track of just how long it's been.)

Later, they will talk. But, for now, it's all fine. (Perhaps everything is going to be just fine after all.)

-o-

Author's Notes:

Disclaimers: Well, this is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom, and it's not Brit-picked, obviously. Also, I have little knowledge of ACD canon, and I have not looked at any of the S3 set spoilers, so.

I am interested to know if the writing style flowed enough to be comprehensible – I had some trouble distinguishing between the two "he"s at some points, and then there's the whole parentheses thing. So, let me know if it worked for you? If it didn't, I may be editing and reposting. Reviews and criticisms (and/or invites to AO3 – what, who said that?) are always welcomed and appreciated! Thank you for reading!

-dget


End file.
